Brutilized
by Revhead
Summary: Starsky is captured and tortured for information regarding Hutch's whereabouts.


**Brutalized **

"Thanks, Cap'n," Starsky said casually, leading the way out of their commanders office with a slight skip in his step.

Behind him, Hutch dipped his head slightly in respect, "Captain," before following his partner out of the room.

Starsky clapped his hands. "I know a great Italian restaurant just down the road, fantastic food, fair price... And you know, it reminds me of –"

Eager to stop him early on in his tirade, Hutch interrupted, "Sorry, Starsk, but I have to get going straight away if I'm going to make the most of our time off."

Starsky glanced sideways at his friend, a frown creasing his features. "You're not still thinking of going on that fishing trip?"

"Sure I am," Hutch replied. "You should come too - fresh air, beautiful scenery..."

"Maybe another time," Starsky said, not looking very enthusiastic as he pushed open the front door of headquarters.

"Okay..." Hutch relented as they walked out into the sunlight, "But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"Yep," Starsky agreed. "I'll drive you home then?"

"Thanks."

Starsky pulled into the familiar driveway, cruising to a smooth stop.

"You want to come in for a drink before I go?" Hutch offered as he stepped out of the car.

Starsky smiled. "Sure." He closed his own door firmly, and spared a second to admire the paintwork on his car, before following his friend into the house. "You got any beer?" he called to Hutch, who had disappeared into the kitchen, as he slid off his jacket and draped it across one of the arm chairs. A little creative mess never hurt anyone.

"Nope!" came the reply. "I have fruit juice and coffee."

Starsky wrinkled his nose. "I'll take the coffee, thanks."

A few minutes later Starsky was reclining on the couch, coffee in hand, watching as Hutch packed the last of his fishing gear.

"You sure about this?"

Hutch glanced up at him, a faintly annoyed expression on his face. "It'll be fun, Starsky."

"Oh, sure, sure," he consented mildly, standing up to place his coffee cup in the sink. "See you in a couple of weeks, then."

Hutch nodded, wobbling slightly as he tried to balance the fishing rods and pack in his arms.

Starsky laughed, flicking two fingers in a mock-wave as he wandered back to his Ford Torino. "Bye!"

"Hey – Starsk, couldn't you –?"

Starsky slipped into the driver's seat and slammed the door on Hutch's voice, the smirk still on his face as he drove away.

It was only when he reached his own house and half-stepped out into the chill night air that Starsky realised that he had left his jacket at Hutch's place. He sighed, and pulled the handbrake into drive, swerving back out onto the road.

Hutch had already left by the time Starsky made it back to his house, which only stumped him for a few moments before he remembered that there was a spare key near the back door. He jumped the fence easily, and fiddled around on the doorframe until he successfully retrieved the key. It was a little rusty, but it slid into the keyhole well enough, and the door unlocked with a faint _click_.

Starsky wandered into the darkened rooms, not bothering to turn on the lights since he knew the place like the back of his hand. His fingers brushed the armchair and latched onto his jacket. He slid an arm into the sleeve, and then froze. Footsteps.

He casually finished putting on the jacket, and then ducked just in time to avoid a blow to the back of his head. Moving fast, he slugged his assailant in the gut and dashed from the room. He winced when his shin connected with the leg of a chair but didn't slow, diving over the kitchen surface and making for the back door.

Silhouetted in the open doorway was yet another man, and Starsky skidded to a halt. He was surrounded.

He ran back to the kitchen and drew his gun. "Police!" he called. "Halt or I'll shoot!" He wasn't quite bluffing, but he could hardly see as it was, let alone well enough to fire a gun. Apparently the same thing had occurred to his attackers, because he could still hear them advancing.

Starsky swung out blindly, and surprisingly his fist connected solidly with someone's skull. He used the opportunity to scuttle backwards, but before he could run something slammed hard into his shoulder and everything went black.

Starsky groaned as he gradually regained consciousness. His head hurt, and from the ache in his arms he gathered that his hands were tied behind his back. He tried to shift his feet and, when that didn't work, deduced that his feet were in the same predicament. A couple of moments later he realised that his jacket was missing again, and he was sitting on a hard backed chair, in a relatively small room. And he wasn't alone.

"Sleepyhead's finally awake, eh?"

Starsky struggled to open his eyes, but everything remained black. Blindfolded, then.

"What d'you want?" he asked groggily. "And where am I?"

"Don't worry," the voice said. Starsky struggled to recognise an accent. It sounded typically American, which wasn't much of a help. "I only want one thing from you."

"Oh?" Starsky mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. "What's that?"

There was a pause, and Starsky got the impression that the man had leaned closer. "The location of one Detective Kenneth Hutchinson."

Starsky jerked his head around toward the direction of the voice. "No idea who you're talking about."

The man sent a stinging slap across his face. "Don't play coy with me, Starsky. You were at his house last night, and your badge states that you're from the same police division. It doesn't take much to put two and two together. Now answer the question. Where is your partner?"

Starsky frowned at the amount of information that this guy seemed to have. "I don't know," he replied, only to receive a punch to the jaw. It had been worth a try, at least. "What do you want with him anyway?"

"He and I have unfinished business," the man growled. "He banished me to hell for five years... And I'm going to return the favour."

"I won't tell you anything," Starsky pointed out, and then braced himself for the expected blow. It didn't come. Instead, the man laughed unkindly.

"A noble sentiment, but I think you'll change your mind eventually. I can be very...persuasive."

He clicked his fingers and Starsky heard heavy footfalls coming around from behind him. It was about all the warning he got before a meaty fist smashed into his eye, then nose, then stomach... On and on the beating went until his entire body felt battered and bruised. The final punch caught him in the eye again, and then the hammering blows ceased.

Starsky sucked in a deep breath and let it go with an involuntary shudder.

"The location of your partner?"

"You're – wasting – your – time," Starsky gasped around the pain.

"If you don't cooperate it will only get worse for you."

"What, you didn't hear me the first time?" Starsky spat, his patience wavering.

"It is your choice how long you will suffer," the voice drawled, each word deliberately mocking. "You will break eventually. Speaking of which..."

The heavy footsteps sounded again, and abruptly Starsky found his hand caught in a vicelike grip. A strong finger hooked around one of his own, and slowly pulled it backwards. His back arched as he tried to flow with it, but the applied pressure was too great.

"Your partner?"

Starsky clenched his mouth shut, stubbornly refusing to answer.

The bone in his finger snapped, and a gasp hissed through his teeth.

The pressure moved to the next finger, and the question came again.

"No," Starsky growled, and the next finger _popped_ as it broke.

"Where is he?"

Pain radiated from his hand as yet another finger began to bend. He forced out, "None of your-" _Pop_.

The process repeated itself, and each refusal to answer the question was accompanied by a loud _pop_. Starsky wished that he could at least fight back, but bound as he was all he could do was flinch and try not to scream.

Out of fingers, Beefcake grabbed both hands, twisting sharply and abruptly.

As hard as he tried, Starsky couldn't hold in the scream when both wrists snapped at the same time.

"Is your partner really worth this?" the voice queried.

_No!_ Starsky wanted to say as the agony rippled through him, but pride and fierce loyalty overruled the urge and he whispered, "Yes."

"Fool. You will come to think otherwise when the pain becomes too great."

"You're wrong about that," Starsky mumbled, shifting again.

"Do his feet as well," the voice ordered, presumably to Beefcake, "then untie him. He won't be able to escape in this condition."

They didn't even bother to ask where Hutch was this time, as each toe and then foot was broken individually. Starsky jerked and writhed in his futile attempts to escape the torture. By the end of it he was covered in sweat and shaking uncontrollably, the pain almost overwhelming. It was only dimly that he felt the ropes being cut, and he could offer no resistance when he was shoved off the chair and onto the floor, even though his body was screaming in protest. The blindfold was removed as well, but his eyes were so swollen that he could hardly see anything anyway. Beefcake threw in an extra punch for good measure, and then Starsky was left alone.

"Some holiday," he muttered, succumbing to his body's desperate plea for respite and slipping into unconsciousness.

"Wakey-wakey, sleepyhead."

The taunting voice wasn't, Starsky reflected, the nicest thing to wake up to, especially when being awake meant that the pain and memories came rushing back. He muttered darkly to himself, knowing that it would be useless to feign sleep and wanting it to be known that he wasn't at all happy with the current situation.

"You know," the voice continued, "You could be outta here within minutes if you would just tell me where Hutchinson is."

"Yeah, and leave him in your clutches for the same sort of hospitality? You're out of your mind."

"Pity," the voice said, not sounding upset in the least. "I didn't want to have to resort to this."

"To what?" _Why don't you open your eyes and look, dummy?_ He was still marvelling at this wonderful piece of advice when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone sharpening a knife, and his eyes flew open automatically. "Hey – hey, now is that really necessary?"

The man – sandy-blonde, blue eyed, with slightly crooked nose – knelt down next to him on the floor, knife poised. "You will talk," he stated.

"You want me to talk? What do you want me to talk about? I know some really great jokes; learnt them from a friend of mine –" Starsky spoke fast, almost feverishly, but the man cut across him.

"I want to know the location of Detective Hutchinson."

"No, really," Starsky said earnestly, prattling on in hope of stalling what was to come, "there's this one about a golfer and his two friends, it'll have you in hysterics..." He trailed off into silence as the cold hard blade was pressed against his neck.

"Tell me, how much blood can a man lose without dying?" Starsky didn't even want to go there, but apparently his captor considered it a rhetorical question, because he continued on, "Let's find out, shall we?" And he drew the blade very lightly down Starsky's neck.

Without thinking Starsky balled his hand into a fist, ready to punch the guys lights out, and then cried out as his maimed fingers reminded him what had been done to them.

Cruel laughter echoed around the room. "Tsk, tsk. Mustn't try to fight back or you'll injure yourself even more."

He was completely helpless. A strangled moan fought its way past Starsky's throat as Crooked-nose tore open his shirt and carelessly jerked it off him, aggravating his fingers further and shooting tendrils of fire up his arm.

"Last chance," the man informed him. "One small answer to save you a world of agony."

Starsky's gaze fixed on the shimmering metal blade and the spot of red at its tip. All he had to do was say where Hutch had gone fishing. Hutch could take care of himself, he'd be all right. This random wouldn't stand a chance against his partner. _I would never forgive myself if something happened to him_, Starsky reminded himself sternly, fighting through the haze of pain that was clouding his judgement.

"No way," he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut. He couldn't watch as this man continued to torture him, or he would lose all the resolve he had left.

Soon the knife was on him again, trailing from the base of his neck, down his sternum and over his stomach. Then it moved an inch to the right and retraced its path back up his torso. Almost endlessly the pattern was repeated, first on the right half of his chest and then on the left. Starsky's skin was prickling and stinging as droplets of blood trickled off his body, but every time he attempted to move away the knife would leave a deep gash as punishment.

"St-stop," he begged breathlessly.

The blade didn't pause, now moving up and down his left arm.

"Only when you tell me where Hutchinson is."

The location floated to the forefront of his mind, the name on the tip of his tongue.

"He's-" Starsky began, and the knife lifted away. Horror and shame welled up in him as he realised what he had been willing to do, but it still took every ounce of strength in him to say, "safe."

The knife returned with a vengeance, slashing diagonally across Starsky's chest and cutting deeper than all the others. He stubbornly choked down the scream, but it turned out to be more of a repressed sob and tears squeezed past his closed eyelids.

A hand seized his hair and yanked his head off the ground. The blade flicked once on each cheek, scraping off the trails of moisture and leaving streaks of blood in its place. Then the hand unclenched and his head dropped back to the floor with a jarring thud.

"You think that was bad," his captor said darkly, "but I'm just getting started. I suggest you think about that." And with those words he stood and left, the door clanking shut behind him.

A desolate moan escaped from Starsky's lips. He longed for the comforting touch, the reassuring words, and the solid presence of his partner, but Hutch didn't even know he was missing. No one did, and they wouldn't begin to suspect something was wrong for almost two weeks. He would have tried to make it out on his own, but currently he was unable to curl into a ball, let alone fight his way free.

_I'm just getting started._ The words echoed through his mind, making him queasy. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. He was already exhausted, his tolerance of pain practically spent. He wanted to think that he would be strong for Hutch, but he had almost broken twice already, and he had only been captured at most the night before last.

_Hutch would do it for me._ Starsky held onto that thought as tightly as he could, because it was all that kept him going. Hutch would be there to save him, he just had to hang in there a little longer. Together they would beat this creep and send him back to the slammer where he belonged. Just a little longer.

Starsky exhaled slowly, allowing himself to drift into slumber.

Starsky woke the next morning when he was roughly flipped onto his stomach. Agony rushed through him like wildfire, from the numerous wounds on his chest and the hand that was now trapped underneath his body. Reflexes tugged it free, and the good news was that you needed air to scream, so he wasn't screaming.

"Have you changed your mind?" asked his tormentor.

"What do you think?" Starsky muttered, still trying to adjust to the pain. He didn't have all that long, because soon the knife had returned, this time tracing out its pattern on his back. He cast around for another subject, anything to occupy him and push the agony back into the recesses of his mind.

"Do you have a name?" he asked eventually, his voice thin and breathy from trying not to cry out.

"Of course," the man replied coolly.

"Mind telling me?" Starsky persisted, wincing as the knife dug deep.

"Jonas."

"Jonas," Starsky repeated absently. He didn't think he'd ever heard Hutch mention anyone with that name, but it wasn't like he remembered every man he'd busted either.

The knife continued its path, moving over his shoulders and down his arms, sparing nothing.

"Why won't you end your pain? Why must you continue to defy me? Just a few small words and I will let you go."

"Sure," Starsky mumbled. The likelihood of that had become next to none now that he knew Jonas' name. Not only that, but Starsky could describe him as well. Jonas would be stupid to let a cop go with that kind of information, especially one with a strong incentive for seeing him behind bars.

Jonas laughed quietly. "The pain would stop. Isn't that what you want?" The polite tone vanished, and the blade slashed over his back. Starsky jerked violently. "If you don't tell me, you will suffer for an eternity."

_Hutch would do it for me,_ Starsky reminded himself. He could hold out. He had to.

Jonas placed the knife on the floor, and pulled something from his pocket. Starsky strained his neck and eyes in order to see what it was, and then wished he hadn't. A lemon? This guy was sick...

"I give you one more chance," Jonas said, the lemon poised.

Starsky screwed up his eyes and sighed in resignation. "Whatever," he muttered. "Just make it quick."

Jonas didn't, deliberately squeezing out one acidic drop at a time, making every part of his back tingle and sting. It felt like he was burning.

Just when he thought that the pain couldn't get any worse, Starsky was flipped back over onto his back. Startled, he yelled and found he couldn't stop as the knife tore open his chest again and the lemon treatment recommenced.

"Hutch! Oh God, Hutch, it hurts!" he screamed hoarsely, unable to stand it any longer.

"Hutchinson isn't here, but you know where he is. Tell me, and the hurting will stop."

"I can't," Starsky choked, tears beginning to cascade down his face. "I can't."

"You can and you will!" Jonas yelled, bringing the knife down again and again.

Starsky tried to beat him away; mutilated hands flapping uselessly, his entire body bucking under the strain.

Tired of it, Jonas drove a fist hard into Starsky's stomach, cracking a rib.

Starsky's breath whooshed out of him, and he subsequently began gasping. The pain was excruciating, and he was never getting enough oxygen into his lungs.

Jonas relented, gazing down at him coldly before leaving the cell. He was surrounded completely by darkness, the only sound that of his ragged breathing. He was going to die here. He was going to die, and no one would even have a clue where to look for his body.

"Hutch..."

Hutch swept off his hat as he stepped into the General store, dabbing away the sweat under his brow before replacing it on his head. He meandered up to the counter, adopting a Texan swagger.

"Can I get a bottle of water?" he asked, smiling at the checkout lady.

"Sure," she replied, placing one before him. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Well actually, I left this store's phone as a contact number for the folks back home..."

She nodded. "A lot of people do that out here."

Hutch nodded. "Have there been any calls for Hutchinson over the past week?"

The lady paused for a second, and then laughed. "So it's you he was calling. Funny name – Huggy Bear or something. Sounds cute."

Hutch raised an eyebrow. "Did he leave a message?"

"Uhh, yeah. Let me find it. One moment."

"Thanks." Hutch leaned against the counter, wondering why on earth Huggy would be trying to contact him while he was on holiday.

"Here it is," the lady announced, passing him a sheet of paper.

He glanced at it.

"Something about a warning," she explained, "and he wanted you to call him back as soon as possible."

"Can I borrow the phone?"

"How could anyone say no to a man as cute as you?" she bantered.

He laughed uneasily, just imagining the expression Starsky would be giving him if he were here.

"Here you go."

"Thanks," he said absently, already dialling.

"This is Huggy Bear's restaurant -"

"Huggy, it's Hutch. You called, said it was urgent."

"Hutch!" Huggy said, and there were sounds in the background that suggested he had moved to a quieter location.

"So what's up?" he asked impatiently.

"There was a man asking around about you, said he had a debt to settle or something. Name of Jonas," Huggy explained.

"Jonas..." Hutch thought about it for a moment. "I thought he was in jail."

"Just got out a week or so ago, and came looking for you. Just thought you'd like to know."

Hutch smiled, grateful for the friend he had made in this man. "Thanks Huggy. Did you tell Starsky about this?"

"No," Huggy said hesitantly, sounding faintly concerned. "I tried, but it seems he's disappeared from the neighbourhood."

"Starsky?" Hutch frowned. Last time he'd checked Starsk had been planning to hang around town and relax at home. If he had decided to join him up here he would have called... "Hang on," he told Huggy and turned to the checkout lady. "Have there been any other messages for me?"

She flicked through a book briefly, then shook her head.

"Huggy, do you have any idea where he might be?" Hutch asked. He knew Starsky could take care of himself, but all of a sudden Hutch had a bad feeling.

"Well, Jonas stopped coming around after a couple of days..." Huggy ventured.

"You think he got Starsky?" Panic flared inside him. Jonas was well known for his sadistic nature back in the day, and somehow Hutch doubted his time in jail would have changed that.

"I don't know, man," Huggy replied, "but it's possible."

So much for his holiday. "Thanks, Hug."

"No problem."

Hutch hung up and offered a smile he didn't feel to the lady at the counter. "Thanks a lot."

Her smile was genuine. "Any time, sweetheart."

Trying not to run, Hutch rushed back to his cabin to pick up his bags, and hurriedly threw them in the back seat of his car. It looked like he was heading home.

"Hang on, Starsk."

Starsky lay on his side, his arm stretched awkwardly above his head to keep the hand relatively safe. He stared blankly at the grey wall of his prison, choosing not the see the smatterings of dried and fresh blood that covered the floor. He was drained, physically and emotionally. He didn't want to think anymore. He refused to face reality, ignoring it until the last possible moment and retreating inside himself when the torture began. He had lost count of the time that had passed, of how many times he had been asked the same question, of the number of injuries that had been inflicted on him. All that remained of his sanity was a thin shred of hope that it was going to end, whether in rescue or death.

"Starsky!" Jonas barked.

His reverie broken, Starsky blinked wearily, the only sign that he had heard.

"Starsky!" Jonas approached from behind him, and planted a boot on his back. When he still received no reply, he leaned harder, stretching the skin and reopening the wounds on his back.

Starsky groaned softly.

Jonas removed his foot and moved around the prone figure on the floor, stepping deliberately on the outstretched hand and laughing as he did so.

"I reckon you've been thinking long and hard these past few days," Jonas said.

_You reckon wrong,_ Starsky mumbled internally, lacking the strength and will to say it out loud.

"You gonna tell me where your partner is?"

_Nope._

"You've been trying to protect him, no doubt because you think he would do the same. If he really cared, though, don't you think he would have found you by now? Given himself up to save your life?"

"Doesn't know," Starsky coughed, closing his eyes to block out Jonas' falsely sympathetic expression.

"I could send someone to tell him. Just speak to him is all. Just tell me where he is."

Starsky shook his head weakly. He knew Hutch would come for him, but he also knew that Jonas would be lying in wait. He wouldn't let that happen.

"Just tell me," Jonas repeated as he knelt down beside him. "Just tell me."

_Just go away..._

Starsky felt tugging on the flares of his jeans, and retreated further inside himself. He didn't want to know, didn't want to feel the pain that he knew was coming, but his nerve-endings were already awake and sensitive because of his toes. He felt every slice of the blade as it made its way down the back of his bared legs, and then up his shin bones when Jonas swapped sides. He felt the rivulets of blood as they dripped onto the floor, and he felt what little hope he had left trickle away until he had nothing left.

He was already dead, his body just hadn't figured it out yet.

When Hutch arrived home the first thing he noticed was Starsky's striped tomato sitting in his driveway. Skin crawling, he left his stuff in the car and headed straight inside. At the first glance, his worst fears were confirmed. Tables and couches were askew, chairs and pot plants knocked over, a random plate shattered in the kitchen – all suggestions that a struggle had taken place. The only reason he could see for that was someone had broken into his house hoping to find Hutch and discovering Starsky instead. He had to have been outnumbered; the question was whether they had killed or captured him. Hutch sincerely hoped the latter, but it didn't bode well for his friend either way.

He did a quick search for evidence but only found his rusty old spare key, which was presumably how Starsky had gotten inside. Nothing he saw told him anything about who the attackers were or where they might have been heading. Thankfully there were no traces of blood either, so Hutch chose to think that Starsky had been captured rather than killed. That still didn't bring him any closer to finding him, though.

_When in need for information, ask Huggy,_ Hutch thought to himself, heading back to his car.

An hour later he was talking to a Karl Jameson who reluctantly told him about a job his brother had taken on recently.

"He's a big man, shee? Sho he's hired ash a bodyguard of shorts, for shome unlaw enforshment." Karl laughed nervously.

"Who hired him?" Hutch asked.

"Man named Jonash," Karl supplied, looking down and wringing his hands together.

"Where is he?" Hutch pressed.

Karl glanced up. "Didn't cach the name o' the place-"

All patience gone, Hutch pinned his informant against the wall. "Where is he?" he repeated darkly.

"Shomewhere in the warehoush dishtrict," Karl said hurriedly. "Number thirty-two or shomesing."

"Thankyou," Hutch said, releasing him and striding away without another word. He only hoped he wasn't too late.

"Police headquarters, this is Zebra Three..."

Everything had been silent for a while, so when there was a loud commotion upstairs it caught Starsky's attention. Someone yelled, "we got him!" and he could hear Jonas' maniacal laughter in the background.

_Got who?_ Starsky wondered absent-mindedly, not really caring until Jonas burst in.

"You served your purpose well, Starsky. We have your partner at last. Couldn't have done it without you." Jonas laughed as he left the room again, leaving Starsky alone with waves of shock crashing over him.

He hadn't betrayed Hutch. He couldn't have. He would have remembered giving in, succumbing at last. The pain would have ended if he had.

_But I did give in. I stopped fighting. What if I told him?_ His heart and mind filled with a silent moan of despair. He had tried so hard to resist, to protect his friend from this sadistic maniac, and he had failed. Now they would both die, and it was all his fault.

"Hutch..." he practically sobbed, "I'm sorry..."

Mindless of the pain, Starsky dragged himself into the far corner of his cell and curled into a tight, protective ball, longing to hide himself from the world and friend he had betrayed. Hopeless tears flooded down his face as he rocked back and forth, back and forth. He had failed.

"Where's Starsky? Where's my partner? What have you done to him?" Hutch burst out as soon as Jonas reappeared. The fact that he had been caught didn't really concern him, because backup was on its way. All that mattered at the moment was Starsky.

"His condition is of concern to you?" Jonas asked with a sly smile.

Everything in Hutch's expression and posture screamed 'yes!'

"I shall take you to him, then," Jonas said, still smiling. "Distress is, after all, a form of torture, and I want you to suffer as much pain as possible." Jonas clicked his fingers, and the large man who had captured Hutch on his way in, probably Karl's brother, now grabbed his arm firmly and ushered him down a staircase.

They stopped in front of a large metal door, and Jonas, beaming, indicated that he should open it.

Hutch dreaded what he would find inside, but opened it anyway.

The lighting was dim, but Hutch could easily make out the pool of half-dried blood in the middle of the floor. Nausea rushed up his throat and he had to look away. Now deeply concerned he quickly scanned the rest of the room, but it was a few moments before he realised that someone was curled up in the darkest corner, muttering something over and over. He stepped closer.

"Hutch, I'm sorry. I failed, I gave in, it's all my fault. I'm sorry..."

"Starsky?"

"Hu-tch. Hutch?" The low rasp hardly sounded like his friend, but Hutch had no doubt as to who it was.

"Starsky." He ran forward, slipping slightly and dropping inelegantly down beside his partner. His breath caught in his throat as he noticed that Starsky's entire body was caked in blood, and he was still bleeding. "Oh, God, what have they done to you?"

"H-Hutch?"

"I'm here, buddy." Hutch smiled weakly, but Starsky didn't seem very happy, trying to curl himself into a tighter ball and hiding his face. Hutch hesitated. It hadn't occurred to him that Starsky could resent him for inadvertently causing him such pain; he'd been too preoccupied with actually finding him.

"Rejected..." Jonas exhaled gleefully.

"Starsk-" Hutch tried, but Starsky cut across him.

"H-Hutch, I'm sorry. I, I failed, I gave in, it's my, all my - fault. I'm sorry..." He trailed off, his body shuddering.

Starsky blamed himself, Hutch realised, the mantra finally sinking in. "No, Starsk, you did great. It's okay, there's nothing to be sorry for. Everything's going to be fine."

There was a long silence. Then, "Hutch?"

"Mm?" He leaned forward, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. When Starsky shivered but didn't say anything, Hutch carefully rolled him over, eliciting a moan from the injured man. His heart aching in sympathy, Hutch wrapped protective arms around him, supporting Starsky as best he could. It was a few moments before he noticed that his partner was cradling his hands oddly.

"What's wrong with your hands?" he asked in a low voice.

"Huh?" Starsky seemed a little out of it, which was generally a sign that the pain was very bad.

Hutch gently extracted one of the hands and his eyes widened in sickened horror. Each finger was broken and swollen, as was the wrist itself. His head whipped around and he glared furiously at Jonas.

"You're sick!" If he hadn't been worried about hurting Starsky further, Hutch would have flown at the man and beaten him to a pulp. As it was, he began to disentangle himself. Jonas saw the warning signs and ducked neatly out of the door, locking it behind him.

"Lousy creep," Hutch muttered.

He realised that Starsky was trembling again and looked down to see a tear slip down his grazed cheek. Thoughts of Jonas were immediately dismissed as Hutch gently embraced his partner, murmuring quiet words of comfort in his ear. "We'll be outta here soon," he promised. "The Calvary's on its way."

And so it was. Only a few minutes past before Hutch heard the warehouse door crash open and an officer yell, "Police! Drop your weapons immediately or we will have to fire!"

Soon after that a shot rang out, joined by a multitude of others. Jonas was resisting.

Starsky tilted his head toward the noise. "Sh-sh - help? Help?"

Hutch smiled. His partner was truly a cop at heart. "Not this time, buddy."

Starsky's forehead wrinkled into a frown. "Oh," he said simply, sounding faintly bemused.

"Do you think you can walk?" Hutch asked, changing the topic.

By response Starsky grimaced, glancing down at his toes.

Hutch felt the anger bubble up inside him again when he saw that the foot had been mutilated too. No wonder Starsky hadn't been tied up. It was surprising that he could move at all.

"I'm going to kill Jonas," Hutch growled, his usually calm demeanour forgotten.

"Me first," Starsky said, smiling faintly. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, and he coughed.

Unable to help himself, Hutch smiled too, shaking his head fondly. "You'll be back in action in no time."

"Sergeant Hutchinson?" a voice called.

Hutch gazed down at his partner for a long moment before calling out, "In here!"

The young policeman who broke open the door evidently wasn't used to such horrific scenes, because all colour drained from his face when he caught sight of the blood on the floor, on Hutch's clothing and on Starsky.

"H-he's alive, s-sir?" he stammered. He couldn't have been older than 25, obviously new to the police force.

"Yeah," Hutch said reassuringly. "Why don't you wait outside, I'll bring him up."

"Okay." The kid looked relieved, and had vanished within seconds.

"Sounds like he's seen a ghost," Starsky mumbled humorously.

"Well, you're pale enough to be mistaken as one," Hutch returned. "You look awful."

"Why thankyou," Starsky replied sarcastically.

"What say we get out of here?"

"Mmm," Starsky agreed wearily, his momentary strength dissipating.

"This could hurt," Hutch warned, shifting position so that Starsky would be easier to lift. He didn't want to cause his partner any more pain, but he didn't want to stay here either.

"Don't worry, I've had worse. Recently in fact."

Hutch winced, even though he knew Starsky was trying to make light of what had been done to him. "Brace yourself."

"Sure." But as soon as Hutch managed to lift him into his arms, Starsky slipped into unconsciousness.

A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth as Hutch thought of the comment he would have made about Starsky's unhealthy food intake and his subsequent weight. It would be wasted if he said it now, though.

Not quite knowing how he did it, Hutch made it up the staircase and out to the waiting ambulance without dropping his cargo. He received quite a number of stares because of all the blood and Starsky's tortured condition – some dismayed, some angry.

"We got 'im!" yelled one of the cops triumphantly. "The man responsible for this is dead. He ain't ever gonna hurt anyone again."

Hutch flashed a grateful grin at the man for the update, his bloodlust somewhat sated, although he still would have preferred to deliver the final blow himself.

"Sir, if you would place him on the gurney, please," said the paramedic.

"I'm staying with him," Hutch stated firmly.

"Of course," the paramedic said smoothly, "but we would like to start treatment as soon as possible. He's in very bad shape."

Hutch nodded and complied, gently laying out his partner on the thin white mattress. "Can I help?"

The paramedic looked at him before nodding curtly and handing him a damp cloth. "We need to clean away the dried blood so we have a better idea of his injuries. I trust you'll be careful."

"Sure." Ever so gently Hutch applied the cloth to Starsky's face, wiping away the streaks of blood and then moving on to the rest of his body. Hutch soon noticed the pattern that Jonas had used on Starsky's chest and it made him sick to think how helpless his friend had been, hardly able to move, unable to fight back. Jonas deserved every bit of what he got and more.

"We need to turn Detective Starsky over so we can do his back," the paramedic announced.

"But his feet will be crushed," Hutch objected. "Won't that make things worse?"

"We'll let them hang over the end, okay? On three - 1, 2, 3."

Hutch heard a faint crack and, concerned, searched the paramedic's face for an answer.

He was frowning. "Sounds like a cracked rib. We'll finish this quickly, then it needs to be bound to prevent further damage."

The diagnosis on his friend was getting worse and worse, Hutch reflected sadly as he began to gently clean Starsky's back. The recovery was going to be long and painful.

When Hutch swiped the cloth over a particularly deep wound, Starsky groaned, shifting uncomfortably. Hutch paused, unwilling to hurt his partner more than was absolutely necessary.

The paramedic noticed his hesitation and dabbed at the gash for him. "It's better to do it while he's unconscious."

Hutch was silent for a moment before he replied softly, "Yeah, I know."

They had almost finished the job when the ambulance pulled to a stop outside the hospital.

"Let us take over from here," the paramedic suggested when he was joined by a number of nurses who proceeded to wheel the gurney out of the van.

"I'm staying with him," Hutch repeated forcefully, moving forward to help.

"Fine," the man sighed. "But don't get in the way."

Hutch did as he was told – hovering but not interfering as the hospital personnel cleaned up his partner more thoroughly, sterilized and bandaged his wounds, and carefully set the broken bones.

"Doctor," Hutch addressed the man who had taken over once the hustle and bustle had ceased, "what are his chances of healing totally?" He was worried most about Starsky's hands and feet. If the bones didn't heal properly, it would be harder to handle a gun or run fast, which could effectively move him to a desk job. That would destroy him.

"He has been severely brutalized, but give it a few months and Detective Starsky should be completely back to normal."

Hutch exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "There won't be any lasting effects?"

The doctor shook his head. "A few scars maybe, but nothing life-changing."

Hutch allowed himself to smile. "Thankyou. Do you mind if I sit with him?"

"Go ahead, we're finished here for the moment."

"Thanks."

Hutch pulled up a chair and sat at Starsky's head, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He appeared so small, swamped by the white sterile bandages and lacking the larger-than-life energy he had when he was awake. But he was safe.

"You're going to be okay," Hutch murmured, relaxing for the first time since he had called Huggy from the General Store. An hour or so later he was asleep, his hand resting lightly on his partner's shoulder.

"You're wasting your time..."

The low muttering woke Hutch from his slumber. "Starsk?" he yawned, blinking hazily.

"No!" Following the yell, the heart monitors beeping increased, and Hutch jerked himself wide awake.

"Starsky!"

The bed covers had been thrown off and Starsky was twisting and tossing frantically on his bed. Hutch tried to hold him down so he wouldn't hurt himself, but even injured Starsky packed a punch, and Hutch staggered backwards, rubbing a bruised jaw.

Doctors burst into the room instants later, forcibly pinning Starsky to the bed. "We have to restrain him," someone said.

Hutch blurted an objection at once. Starsky was evidently having a nightmare, and strapping him down would only serve to reinforce the feeling that he was still in Jonas' clutches.

"He'll hurt himself and others if we don't," a nurse tried to explain, attempting to pull him away.

"Let me try to get through to him," Hutch begged. It was his fault that Starsky was going through this, and there was no way that Hutch was going to leave him.

The head doctor gave him a long, searching look before nodding and stepping away. The other doctors followed his lead, if reluctantly, and Hutch dashed forward. Heedless of the surrounding crowd, Hutch sat on the bed and gathered his partner into his arms.

"Starsk, it's okay, it's me," he murmured into his ear. "You're safe. We're both all right."

"Hutch – would – do – the – same – for – me," Starsky gasped, his chest heaving from the exhortation.

"That's right, buddy," Hutch said soothingly. "But you don't have to be strong anymore. I've got you."

Starsky was trying to curl into a ball again, hiding his face in the crook of his arm. He was trembling.

Hutch unwound him again, gently cupping his face and brushing away the tears with his thumb. "I'm here, Starsk. Calm down, it's okay."

As Starsky's breathing began to slow, everything was quiet save for the steady bleep of machinery in the background. Finally Starsky's eyelids fluttered open. "Hutch?"

"It's me, partner. You're safe."

Starsky's eyes were a little unfocused, but eventually they fixed on Hutch's face. "Jonas?"

"He's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."

Starsky nodded slightly. "Beefcake?"

"Who?" It was a few moments before Hutch remembered Karl's brother and made the connection between him and the now mostly hidden bruises on Starsky, possibly some of the other injuries as well. "He's in jail, so you don't have to worry about him either."

Starsky nodded weakly again. "It hurts, Hutch," he admitted, his eyes slowly closing again.

"I know, buddy." Hutch's heart ached for his friend. How anyone could do that to a person was beyond him. "Go to sleep," he said quietly.

"Stay?"

Hutch smiled, shifting into a more comfortable position and embracing his partner warmly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Th-thank..." Starsky's head fell back against his chest, and within seconds he was breathing deeply, fast asleep.

Hutch looked up to see that a number of nurses had tears in their eyes.

"I take it you've been partners for a while now," said the head doctor, his expression gentler than it had been.

"Yes, sir," Hutch affirmed. Slightly troubled he asked, "These nightmares...are they going to be frequent?"

The doctor nodded sadly. "For at least the first few weeks. Detective Starsky is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, quite understandably, and unpleasant dreams are one of the more persistent symptoms. It makes the recovery from this kind of ordeal even harder, I'm afraid."

Hutch nodded wearily. "I'll be there every step of the way."

The doctor nodded. "He couldn't ask for a better friend."

_I couldn't either,_ Hutch thought, looking down at the injured man in his arms. Starsky had suffered so much in order to keep his location a secret, and hadn't once felt resentful towards him even though he had every right to. Looking out for him now was the least he could do in return.

Gradually the crowd of hospital staff dissipated, leaving Hutch alone with his sleeping partner. Hutch welcomed the silence. Everything had been fairly hectic since his frantic car journey back to Bay City, and while the few hours sleep he had caught up on before Starsky's nightmare had done a lot to rejuvenate his physical energy supplies, his emotions were still rather frayed. Just sitting here in the quiet stillness with Starsky safe and secure in his arms, even for a short while, would help him feel better.

An ironic smile tugged at his lips. So strong were the bonds of their friendship that when one of them was hurt the other was too. They suffered through it together and worked through it together just as they did with everything else. It sometimes made things harder, but Hutch wouldn't have it any other way and he was sure that Starsky wouldn't either.

"The doc says you're free to go home!" Hutch announced as he entered the hospital room. He wasn't surprised the see the look of absolute relief on Starsky's face. He had been in the same room for three weeks already and was gradually going crazy with boredom. "But..." he added, "you're suppose to come in weekly for check ups and physical rehab sessions."

Starsky's face fell. "What, they haven't poked and prodded me enough already?"

Hutch smiled sympathetically, knowing that Starsky hated the constant reminders of his condition. "It's only to make sure-"

"-everything's healing okay and there isn't any unforseen damage," Starsky finished for him, rolling his eyes. He was silent for a moment, then something else occurred to him. "Don't tell me I'm supposed to use a wheelchair."

Hutch grinned ruefully. "How else did you expect to move around?"

Starsky groaned. "And I can't exactly drive either, can I?"

"Nope," Hutch replied. "You'll have to put up with my car for a while."

"This is torture," Starsky complained.

"Would you rather stay here? I can go ask the doctor for you-" Hutch offered, repressing a laugh at the expression on his friends face.

"No!" Starsky struggled out of the bed, balancing unsteadily on his heels. "Where's that wheelchair?"

Hutch quickly retrieved one and got his partner settled. "Ready to go?" he asked cheerfully.

Starsky muttered something incomprehensible.

"What?"

"It never ends," Starsky repeated sullenly. "Even with him dead..."

Hutch looked down, knowing what he meant. Even though Jonas was long gone, the after-effects were almost as bad as the torture itself had been. He knew how much Starsky detested not being in full control of his body, and by mutilating his hands and feet Jonas had ensured that such would be the case for the next few months.

"Come on," Hutch diverted quietly. "Lets get you home."

"I made your favourite," Hutch said, placing the food on the table with a flourish.

Starsky offered a crooked smile. "Don't tell me you called my mother again."

"Nah," Hutch reassured him. "I kept the recipe. Although, I really should call her some time, she's such a sweet lady..." he teased.

The glare Starsky gave him was priceless.

Hutch smiled and dug into his meal. He'd never admit it out loud, but for once he agreed with Starsky's taste in food. He wouldn't eat it all the time, but it was nice to have occasionally.

"This'll beat hospital food hands down," Starsky said with enthusiasm, adding as a slight, "even if you did cook it." He reached for his fork, and then froze.

Hutch looked up at him to see that Starsky's light blue eyes had darkened with pain and frustration.

"I can't even pick up a fork," Starsky muttered angrily, slamming his cast on the table and then working to contain a grimace.

"Starsk, I'm sorry," Hutch said, abandoning his own food and moving to crouch beside his friend. "Lemme help."

Starsky looked away. "Don't bother," he said sharply.

"Starsky. Starsk. Look at me," Hutch insisted.

Starsky turned his head, but he didn't meet Hutch's eyes. Hutch realised how helpless and inadequate he must feel, and knew how stubborn his partner could be at times.

He'd try the stern approach first. "Starsk, you're going to have to accept that this is how it's gonna be for a while. Now you can let me help, or I'll have to take you back to the hospital to be taken care of properly."

"I'm not hungry," Starsky growled, pushing the plate away.

"Starsky, you're never not hungry," Hutch reminded him. "You're not going to give up because of such a small thing-"

"Small?" Starsky interrupted. "Do you have any idea what it was-" He cut himself off, standing up abruptly and staggering away a few steps. Hutch caught him before he could fall and lowered him gently onto a couch.

"That was stupid," he said, not unkindly.

"Yeah well," Starsky mumbled.

There was silence for a long moment.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Hutch asked eventually, settling on the couch beside him.

"Not really." Another beat of silence. Then, "I feel pathetic, having to be pushed around in a wheelchair, hand fed like a baby."

"No one blames you, Starsk."

Starsky snorted softly. "I let myself be captured didn't I? Some cop – couldn't even fight off two bozos. Didn't even try to escape when they untied me. Just lay there and let them-" He broke off with a shudder.

Hutch put an arm around his friend and pulled him into a hug. "No one else could have held out as long as you did."

"Couldn't let him hurt you," Starsky whispered, his body trembling.

Hutch ruffled the brown curls affectionately. "He couldn't break you, Starsk. Don't let him win now."

Starsky looked at him, tears welling up in his eyes as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. "I hate being so helpless," he admitted, his voice wavering.

"I know, bud," Hutch said simply. "But it's nothing to be ashamed of."

Starsky exhaled slowly, and his eyes fluttered shut in defeat. "'kay."

Hutch retrieved the plate and patiently fed his partner until the last of the food was gone. By the time they had finished Starsky's head was drooping, and Hutch gently carried him to the bed. "Go to sleep," he murmured.

"Hutch?"

He leaned forward. "Mmm?"

Starsky smiled faintly. "Thanks."

"Any time, partner," he replied softly. "Now get some rest."

The next few weeks were difficult. Hutch had convinced Dobey to let him have time off work – which hadn't taken much effort, considering the fact that Starsky was recovering from torture – so he was able to be constantly at his partner's side. The physical healing was slow, and the emotional healing even slower.

The nightmares persisted; granting Starsky and subsequently Hutch only a few hours sleep each night before they would wake to the sound of agonised screaming. Starsky was constantly having mood swings – going from angry and violent to quiet and upset in a matter of seconds. He now reacted strongly to the sight of knives and lemons – sometimes even hard-backed chairs – and had a phobia of going into small dark rooms. The sight of his scars, too, evoked powerful emotions in the man. More than anything, though, Starsky was endlessly frustrated by his limited mobility and lack of independence. Hutch was constantly coaxing him into accepting his assistance, all the while aware that in the past it hadn't been an issue, and wondering how things could have changed so much over little more than a week.

Hutch gradually received the full story of what Starsky had experienced – through the nightmares, his own observations and the times where Starsky broke down in his arms, haltingly describing what had happened – and while it helped him understand, it also made him furious. More than once he found himself wishing that he had gotten the chance to repay Jonas in kind, or at least been the one to kill him.

Such thoughts prevented Hutch from sleeping too well, and often he found himself sitting by Starsky's bed at night, the passing of time meaningless as Hutch tried to remind himself that Starsky was safe, Jonas was dead, and that was all that mattered. It was hard, though.

"You didn't deserve this, bud," Hutch murmured to the sleeping form beside him. He couldn't help but notice that the brunet had curled into the fetal position again, and reflect how it was such a stark contrast to the usual, inelegant sprawl of tangled limbs. It pained him to see that Starsky had been impacted so profoundly, subconsciously feeling the need to protect himself even in sleep. "I hate that man for what he did to you." As Starsky started to twitch, indicative of yet another nightmare, Hutch added in a low voice, "What he's still doing to you."

He lifted a hand and gently combed his fingers through Starsky's dark mop of curls, trying to sooth away the painful memories. "I'm right here, Starsk. You're safe."

The blue eyes flashed open, clouded with panic for a brief moment before they found Hutch's face and reality reasserted itself.

"Hey, Hutch," Starsky mumbled, relaxing against the hand that cradled his head.

It was showing definite signs of improvement, Hutch realised. No screams or struggles that time, just a few seconds of uncertainty that had quickly passed. It might have been different if Hutch hadn't been there, but the step forward was encouraging. A little longer and Starsky would probably be able to slam a lid on the nightmares altogether. He would still remember, of course, and it would come back to bother him at times, but it was going to get better.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" Starsky inquired gently, looking up at him with concern shadowing his blue eyes.

"Hm? Oh, uh..." Hutch didn't quite know how to reply to that. He didn't want Starsky to think he was 'mother-henning', but in a way when he actually thought about it he guessed he was...

Starsky cracked a weary smile. "I'm okay, partner."

Reassuring him, providing comfort, even though Starsky was the injured one. Hutch smiled faintly at how ironic it was – and how common.

"Yeah, I know. I'm just..."

"Making sure?" Starsky finished gently, acknowledging the sheepish smile with one of understanding. "I guess these past weeks have been hard on both of us, huh?"

Hutch considered denying it, not wanting Starsky to feel guilty, but he knew that his partner would see through his lie at once.

"Don't bother, Hutch," Starsky said, reading his thoughts. "You ain't fooling anyone." He propped himself up on his elbows, intense blue eyes seemingly gazing into his soul. "D'ya wanna talk about it?"

Hutch glanced down. He didn't really know how to put it into words. He was exhausted, basically. Ever since Starsky had been released from hospital Hutch had found himself dealing with all of his partner's physical and emotional needs, as well as his own. He had born the brunt of all Starsky's pain and frustration, been the shoulder to cry on and the hand to hold, all the while struggling with his own demons and running on next-to-no sleep. He didn't resent it at all, but he was just...so...tired...

Hutch was barely aware of Starsky scooting sideways to make room for him as he slumped onto the bed, fatigue overwhelming him at last.

"Dummy," Starsky's voice murmured affectionately, his arms wrapping Hutch in a cocoon of warmth. Then, gently, "Thanks for being here, Hutch, for looking after me. I appreciate it, partner." A hand fondled his hair, and the last thing Hutch heard was Starsky saying, "We're gonna be okay."

Knowing that Starsky was right eased the burden on his heart, and Hutch fell asleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
